Not even a month ago, on April 3 to be precise, on a high already due to India’s spectacular moment of triumph the night before, the siblings and I-spouses and kids in tow-had boarded Black Diamond Express at Howrah junction at 6 AM sharp-a fleet of three cars having cruised us to the precise bogey (a luxury possible only at Howrah Jn)-a feat in itself, considering that it was a 13 member team-of folks ranging from age 12 to 55-that had caroused till the wee hours of the morning!! And then had started one of the most memorable journeys of our lives, when recollections of countless such trips undertaken before coalesced to form a beautiful collage of memories, when the past and the present merged seamlessly till the actual and the remembered became inseparable.
As the train chugged out of the station, there seemed to be some semblance of setting down-but did we ever? With frenetic movement and constant exchange of seats right through-there was always something happening. Some buried themselves behind the newspaper, some gave in to mindless chatter, some dozed off-and there was brief respite-for the other passengers that is, till some bright spark posed the unavoidable query-breakfast? And that magic word unlocked a series of transactions with hawkers who boarded the train and disembarked at every station, transporting us to the days of yore as nothing else could have. For the Rajdhanis and Shatabdis of the world have deprived us of these simple pleasures of life, where the incessant flux adds a t charm all its own to such solourns. But that day, it was a no holds barred kind of situation-rounds of steaming cups of tea were followed by coffee, then back to tea, depending on what the vendor was selling; these were interspersed with-two dozen shingaaras (read samosas) at Burdwan and three rounds of jhaal muri prepared with enviable dexterity by the camera shy seller. The samosas were scarcely finished when Durgapur station came and young Manoj remembered that samosas there used to be far superior to the ones at Burdwan but the limitations of the tummy’s capacity to ingest goodies came in the way, much to our collective chagrin. A beggar rendering baul sangeet at his melodious best-and sung to the tune of an ektara-completed the perfect picture, as the sometimes mountainous, sometimes green stretches dotted the fleeting terrain outside………..
Alighting at Kumardhubi station brought a horde of memories, Papa's and Mummy's reigning supreme. Of another life in another time…almost on another planet, it seemed. (A chap actually came up and asked if we had come for a shoot!!) The drive to good ole Maithon, albeit through unfamiliar roads, brought a fresh flood of memories and then, we entered the sleepy little place that was home to us for twenty long years, past Main Gate, the cluster of shops that have sprung up there, the Hospital, the Post Office area, the dear old Valley/De Nobili school building and on to the dam till the road gently swerved left and the cavalcade made its way to the lake's edge, stopping finally at the Chairman’s Guest House, which was to be our temporary abode. Everything was the same and yet things were very different-strange but true. The sameness was in the long forgotten landmarks being there, the strangeness in the spruced up look, the neat sign-ages demarcating every area: it was as if a haphazard diagram had been neatly labelled.
No words can do justice to those two days, as we first made a beeline for A 2 Gogna Colony, the home from where we’d bade farewell to the valley (and the house from which the parents had got their two, older children married off, welcoming Babboo and bhabhi into the fold.) Even the noontime sun seemed benign as we marched right through the colony, stopping every other moment in front of a friend’s house, overwhelmed, afresh. A sumptuous meal, then off on a reconnoiter of the different ‘areas’, but first and foremost, the legendary Dam that’s synonymous with the place. A leisurely walk on the dam, pointing out the gates to the kids and telling them that these would release water in the monsoon season , describing how majestic the sight was; then walking further to the hill that proudly housed Asia’s first underground Hydel power station.
Boating was next on the agenda and though some of us refrained, the kiddos-Srishti, Jayati, Rahil and Ramit-with Bhaiya as the perfect escort, trooped into a steam boat while the more adventurous Jiwesh, Amrita, Saagar and Tanvee opted for the paddle boat. Suitably invigorated and ravenous, in direct proportion to the rigorous activity, we next walked into Vishram Kutir (now called an alien sounding, Mazumdar Niwas) and watched sunset from the balcony overlooking the lake, snacks and tea suitably taking centre stage, putting all conversation in temporary abeyance.
The drive back entailed crossing the Forest Guest house, pointing out the Yacht Club then down Dyke area, the CLD office and many other familiar landmarks till finally, via a circuitous route, we reached MB 6, the place where myriad memories of an idyllic childhood reared their head. The present owners very kindly agreed to let us enter their home and then there was no holding back!! We were all over the place, in the spacious courtyard, which the kids could scarce digest, ‘our’ room, the ‘pink’ room, the parents' room, the drawing cum dining hall, the kitchen, the veranda with the U shaped bench... all vied for attention. In between, our gracious hostess, who could have been forgiven for regretting her initial generosity in allowing us in, came up with platefuls of assorted snacks and dry fruits that were consumed with delightful gusto. In the midst of all the excitement around, I paused for a moment, mulling on the fact how small towns still retain the old world charm and warmth that is extended to guests-even perfect strangers-whereas city-bred folks sometimes don’t even recognize their next door neighbours! A telling comment on the times we live in.
We decided to walk through the colony now, down the beaten track that was Manoj and Leena’s bus stop, towards Area 1, Recreation Club and Station Club in that order. Turning left and past the Civil Office on the right, then Alka’s house, we were finally in front of the place where it had all begun-D-8 or Palace named by Bhaiya (who else?) as we lovingly called it, which a certain Sharan family had moved into decades ago. August was a historic month for us too, though twenty years later than that other historic date-2 days to the day. And that’s where we had set anchor, spread our roots and known no other place before or since. This was the home adopted- and adapted to- this obscure yet wonderful haven called Maithon that we took as our real home for ever and forever; where our hearts and minds developed, our dreams took wings.
We were suffused with memories when we stood before the gate-too overwhelmed to speak. The children had dozens of questions as they beheld a compound full of trees like guava, jamun, plum, jackfruit, dotted occasionally by huge rocks and boulders. More stories of our adventurous youth followed, more recollections of the past were made, till sated and promising to return the next day, we moved to other areas.
The second day, befittingly, began with darshan at Ma Kalyaneshwari temple, where Bhaiya had a special pooja perofrmed in our parents' memory, a solemn moment for us all as we remembered their immeasurable contribution in making us whatever we are today. A gorging ritual followed as, seated on wooden benches, we consumed luchi-aloo dum, aloo chops, samosas, chumchum in a tiny shop in the P.O area. The rest of the day passed in a whir of activity: D-8 by day, a walk by the lake, stone throwing & watching the stones bounce on the surface of the water... the weather a perfect blend of clouds and cool breeze, as if doing its best to make this already memorable trip completely unforgettable. A lavish lunch, prepared painstakingly by the cook and served lovingly by his team and it was time to bid goodbye to this quaint little township, Magical Maithon. Amidst comments like ‘Wow, Mamma, you guys grew up in a holiday resort!” and “We’ll definitely come back again” we made our way to Asansol station, 25 km away. A quick recci of our Alma Mater-Loreto Convent Asansol-LCA to us- showing off the majestic grounds, the basket ball courts, the lower fields, the hockey ground, the class rooms, the grotto and the gate that led into St. Patrcik’s and it was time to finally wind up and make our way to the station.
That was almost a month ago: when sheer ecstasy was ours and then, on April 29, the other side of the Indian Railways reared its ugly head, making us reach the nadir of gloom. That was the day when a certain train got delayed by 11 ½ hours, which put paid to a long cherished dream-this time of going back for a reunion, to the dearly-loved college we studied in-for two of us. It was as if April (the cruelest month?) wanted us to get a taste of the sweetest and the bitterest pill all in a go.
Well such is life, but that's another story........
